


Things You've Told Him All Along

by Thirdeyeblinkings



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Brief mention of execution, Coming Out, Dark dining, Drarry, Graphic Descriptions of Suicidal Thoughts, Hd wireless fest, M/M, Mourning, PTSD, Post War, Self Harm, blind dates, brief mention of attempted suicide, hidden identity, mind healer harry, side pairing: Neville/Ginny, side pairing: Ron/Hermione, starving artist draco, suicide hotline/crisis call centre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-05-30 20:47:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15104582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thirdeyeblinkings/pseuds/Thirdeyeblinkings
Summary: Anonymous fire calls, blind dates, awkward run-ins, and kissing in the d-a-r-k. But besides all that, a story about hiding, coming out, and starting over (and over).





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TDCat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TDCat/gifts).



> This fic is loosely based on the song "How to Save a Life" by The Fray, prompted by the lovely @tdcatsblog. I love the song and the story behind it, but I've only incorporated the overall feel of it rather than the literal meaning. How do we save one another? How do we allow ourselves to be saved? Also, my favourite version of the song is an acoustic cover by Tyler Ward. It's on Spotify and probably YouTube as well.
> 
> On a more nit-picky note, I've taken liberties with the whole fire call concept. It's inconsistently portrayed in the books and films, so I just made it do what I want for the purposes of the story.
> 
> All the gratitude to CallMeHopeless for her beta-ing, Plot Strengthener and Brit Picker Extradordinaire. All remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> **Warnings for mentions of suicide attempts and self-harm.**

  
**St. Lupin Crisis Centre**

  
**Six Week Summer Program**

* hands on experience  
* access to a wide variety resources  
* career guidance offered on site  
* flexible working hours

Help troubled youth while receiving training applicable to a future career in Mind Healing, Medicine, or Teaching.

Please see Madam Pomfrey for available start dates.

__________

It's the next thing to try, that's all. The next in a long line of half-arsed things Harry has tried in order to find his "calling" after eighth year. The next thing to do to fill his hours, occupy his thoughts, keep the demons at bay. He hopes it will be the thing that works, because nothing else has.

"First day on firecall duty?" Neville claps him on the back with a confidence that Harry is still getting used to from his formerly shy friend. He's completed the training session just before Harry's, and has been working here only three months, but for all Harry knows it might be three years. Neville is well on his way to professional Mind Healer certification and walks and talks like a man who's got everything sorted. Harry would hate him for it if he weren't so fucking nice, so _Neville_ all the time.

"Yep," Harry replies with forced optimism.

"You'll do brilliantly," says Neville. "And I think you'll like it here." He leads Harry to a row of cubicles, each one containing a desk, a fireplace, and an armchair. "Take your pick. That one on the end was mine when I did my practical." He points to the last cubicle in the row. "I found the chair a little springy but the window made up for it. Always did prefer natural light." He shivers slightly, which puts Harry at ease somehow.

"Alright. That one it is." Harry shuffles in and drops a briefcase onto the empty desk. "Right then, so, three hours?" He stares at the smouldering embers. He's not ready. He wonders if he should offer Neville a cup of tea to keep him from leaving just yet. He's about to fire up the standard issue kettle on his desk and root through the drawer for an extra mug but Neville is already halfway out the door. "Best of luck Harry!" He says with a grin before disappearing down the hall. Bugger.

Harry sinks down into the faded floral chair which is quite springy, more so than Neville let on, he thinks in annoyance, and picks up the leaflet on the desk.

TIPS FOR FIRECALL DUTY

* Remain confident that both your identity and the identity of your callers is protected. Every Crisis Centre fireplace has facial shadow and voice altering spells in effect; these can only be removed by authorised personnel in the case of a dire emergency.

* Listen more than you speak. Most of the witches and wizards who use the Crisis Firecall Line are only looking for someone to talk to.

* The less personal information you share, the better. (No problems there, Harry muses.)

* If you are faced with an emergency ie. a witch or wizard at immediate risk of harming themselves, others, or being harmed, cast sparks into the air above your cubicle and trained personnel will arrive to assess and respond to the situation. (Harry hopes he never encounters anything close to this.)

* Thank you for volunteering. We trust this will be a valuable experience for you and your callers.

Hmm. Harry reads the list over twice, glancing up at the fireplace every so often. Perhaps no one will call today? It is a Monday morning after all. But then he would be stuck with three hours doing nothing, and that wouldn't do either. It occurs to him that he doesn't know what he is supposed to hope for. If no one calls, no one is having a crisis, right? But he needs to get experience somehow.

An ember cracks and sizzles and Harry's heart starts racing. This is it.

The flames leap to life before him and within them he sees a shadow silhouette of a head with hair that falls just below the ears and slender neck. A metallic voice calls out a tentative "Hullo?"

Harry fumbles with the leaflet. He's forgotten how he's supposed to answer. There's a phrase he's supposed to say . . .

"Hullo?" The voice calls again, sounding perturbed more than anything else. Shit. He'll have to wing it for now.

"Hello!" He says, too cheerily. "Welcome to the . . . that is . . . thank you for calling . . . I'm . . ." _Fuck it all to hell_. He takes a deep breath and says steadily. "I'm very sorry. This is my first day."

"Oh good grief," the voice says, and though the face is completely in shadow, Harry can picture the person rolling their eyes at him. He can hardly blame them.

"Yes, but er, no need to worry. I'm properly trained."

"Thank fuck for that," the voice mutters.

Well, whoever it is seems rather too snippy to be in any kind of real crisis. But no matter. He is a professional. Or at least, he will be. Sort of. Finally, he remembers the phrase.

"Firecall Crisis Line!" Too cheery again. "I'm listening."

Silence. The shadow in the fireplace disintegrates and the flames shrink back into the embers. Shit.

The second call doesn't come until half an hour later, and goes much better than the first. How could it not, really? Nowhere to go but up.

It's a girl, he suspects, as the silhouette has longish hair and delicate features, but the metallic voice spell makes it difficult to tell. She's just broken up with her boyfriend, for the third time it would seem. He's not sure it would qualify as as a crisis, and he's not keen on giving relationship advice, but the fact that this person has seen fit to call a complete stranger to talk about it makes his heart ache a little. Anyway, they aren't supposed to give advice, not really. Listen more than you speak and all of that.

"Hmm," he nods sympathetically. "That sounds disappointing."

"Yes! That's just it," says the voice as the head bobs up and down vigorously. "He didn't care enough to attend my aunt's funeral, and then he has the gall to complain to me about missing his precious Quidditch game!"

The boyfriend does sound like a right bastard in his barely professional opinion. "He's not worth your time then,"Harry says without thinking. "Er, I mean . . . I'm sure that hurts. Why do you keep getting back together with him?" They can ask questions that help their callers reflect upon a situation more clearly.

"I think . . . I think it's because I'm afraid I won't find anyone else." The voice is a little hoarse. "I'm nothing special, is all."

Harry doesn't know whether to laugh or cry at that. "Trust me, being special is highly overrated," Harry says wryly, and chastises himself. The less personal information the better. "Listen, you're . . . you. You have something to offer that no one else does. You just need people in your life who recognise that. It will come. Things will get better."

It doesn't sound all that helpful to him but the voice perks up. "Thank you. You really think so?"

"I do," says Harry. "I don't know you, but everyone deserves to be treated with dignity. You'll find someone. Don't give up."

"Okay," the voice says brightly. "I do feel a little better."

"Good. Do you want to keep talking?"

"No, that's okay." And again the fire dies down while the shadow falls away.

Yes, definitely much better.

Harry takes the small victory and puts the kettle on. Once it's ready, he sips his tea and stares out the window Neville spoke so highly of. The hospital takes most of the view, but some sunlight makes its way to the potted dragonfly succulent on his windowsill. He wonders if that is courtesy of Neville too.

He absentmindedly drums his fingers on the desk. Something is nagging at him. That first firecall was somehow familiar, but that doesn't make sense. It's not supposed to be that way. But there it is. Something about the exchange--the nature of it, the way it rankled him, set his jaw on edge . . . but he can't put his finger on it and it's driving him mad. He wonders if the snarky person will call back. He doesn't have to wonder for long.

The embers crack again and voice altering spell or no, the "Hullo?" is unmistakeable. This time he's ready.

"Firecall Crisis Line," he says with authority. He decides to leave off the "I'm listening," bit as he thinks it obvious and unnecessary.

"Yes. Right. I'm here for a check-in," the voice says curtly. It doesn't seem to recognize him from their prior encounter, thank Merlin.

Harry doesn't know what the voice is referring to, but damn if he's going to be a fool twice for the same person. "Of course," he says with a wave of his hand. "Continue."

"Aren't you going to ask the questions?" He can see the silhouette tip slightly forward and hears the arrogance in the clipped consonants. Mr. Snark isn't buying his Established Counsellor act for a moment. He wonders if there even are any questions or if the caller is having him on. Bugger Neville. He should have warned him about this. Well, he isn't giving in or letting on. He will get through this call successfully on his own. He's Harry Fucking Potter, after all.

"Why don't I save you the trouble," says the voice, sounding bored. "I haven't overdosed on noxious substances. I haven't made any attempts on my own life. I am at no risk of harming myself or others."

Harry stares open-mouthed at the silhouette briefly before replying, "Good. Glad to hear it." He's going to hunt Neville down as soon as his shift is over. "Anything else you want to . . . share?"

"You're the same idiot who answered the call before, aren't you?"

 _And you're the same snarky bastard who ducked out on me_ , he wants to respond, but he doesn't. Whoever this person is, their situation sounds complicated, and it's his job to help them. "I don't see why that matters," he says evenly.

"I want to speak the person I've been speaking to regularly. They know my history."

"If you tell me your history," Harry says through gritted teeth, "Then I will know it. And we can get on with this. Your former counsellor is not available." There, that sounded perfectly civil.

The silhouette is silent for a moment, but it does not disappear like last time. "Very well."

Harry waits. He wonders if now is a good time to add the "I'm listening" part, but can't find it in him to say something so sappy to the prickly shadow person in front of him.

"Sob story is as follows. I hope you're listening because I shan't repeat it."

 _Oh, you shan't, shan't you?_ Harry thinks. _What are you, 150 years old?_

"Aurors found me half drowned in the Thames. Muggle London."

Harry coughs and splutters. "Pardon? Did you fall in?"

"Bold of you to assume it was an accident," continues the voice, "seeing as this is a crisis line. Avada Kedavra is so overused, don't you find? Dreadfully predictable. I settled on something more creative. Having never learned to swim it seemed a decent option."

"Fuck," Harry whispers.

"Quite," agrees the voice. "One of the officers took pity on me, got me into . . . " he waves his hand vaguely, "This. I think the other would have preferred to let me rot, if you want to know the truth, not that I blame him . . ."

Who in the hell?

"And that's all I suppose."

That's all? "Lovely story," Harry mutters.

"So glad you think so. I was so hoping you would approve." There's that snark again.

"Well, I don't make a habit of pissing on other people's troubles. Not in the job description, you know." Harry pours himself another cup of tea and looks out the window. He is failing at this. Badly.

And yet, he _thinks_ he may have caught a snort of laughter from the other side of those flames. And that's something, isn't it? Laughing is better than trying to drown oneself in the Thames. But it's not going to earn him any career options. Be nice. Be helpful. Listen.

"Sorry, that was rude," he says, more to the window that the person in the fireplace.

"It's fine. Rude is my second language. Helps with all the self-loathing."

"All the same, I should be doing something a little more . . . helpful. So, please, if there's anything else you'd like to discuss . . ."

The flames die down a little but not completely. "Not at this time," comes the reply. "But I will call again tomorrow, as usual."

"As usual," Harry repeats. Tomorrow. And for some (probably unhinged) reason, he grins at the thought.


	2. Two

  
"It sounds so strange!" Hermione says, perched on his kitchen counter at Grimmauld Place that night. She's organising his cupboards without even realising she's doing it. She was only supposed to be getting a bowl for the bag of crisps Harry picked up on his way home (the same bag Ron has already ripped open and started eating).

"I think it sounds spooky," Ron says through a crunchy mouthful, so it sounds more like "phooky." He swallows hastily at Hermione's withering glare. "I'd no idea confidential firecalls even existed. You could be talking to anyone!"

"That's rather the point, I think, Ron." Harry ducks into the fridge and reemerges with a large bottle of orange Fanta, casually using wandless magic to pour it into three tall glasses.

"Honestly," Hermione grumbles, "we're nineteen. Why do two you still eat like you're in fifth year? Ever hear of fresh fruit and vegetables?"

"Nothing wrong with knowing what I like!" Ron pouts. "Mum feeds me the healthy stuff when I'm there anyway."

"Charming." She shakes her head. "Anyway, I think you're both right. It does sound a little spooky. But of course it's necessary, especially since it goes both ways. I think most people would have trouble confessing their troubles to Harry Potter otherwise."

"Must you, 'Mione?" Harry groans.

"Oh, you know what I mean." She flushes slightly. "Nobody else knows how ridiculously normal you are. Right, Ronald?"

Ron snaps to attention. "Sorry, got distracted after you said 'you're both right.' But yes, Harry, you are as average as they come. It's a shame you have to go saving the world and using wandless magic to pour fizzy drinks. Gives people the wrong idea."

Harry laughs. "Fair point I suppose."

"So, explain it again though. If you can't see the person's face and their voice is modified, how does it not feel like talking to some weird dark robot?"

"Wish I could explain it," Harry shrugs. "It must be very advanced magic from what I can make of it. I can still hear emotion in the voice, and intonation, and even pitch, I think. I can usually tell if it's a male or a female, for instance, but of course I don't know for sure . . . and even some mannerisms, if they've ducked in far enough. Still bloody weird though, if that helps."

"And what can they see or hear of you?" Hermione stacks six mismatched bowls, sorting them by colour and size before sliding off the counter to sit at the table.

"Dunno exactly. When you firecall someone normally you can see the whole room, right? So I'm guessing it's the same for them, only they see it all in shadows? I should ask Neville."

"Maybe I'll just call during your shift and tell you!" Ron suggests.

"Don't you dare!" Hermione nearly shouts, scandalised. "That has to be against regulations."

"Not necessary anyway," Harry jumps in to prevent squabbling, "but thanks Ron. I trust them if they say my identity is protected. And none of my callers have presented any signs of Pottermania," he adds with a smirk.

"What are your callers like then?" Ron frowns. "Isn't it possible you could be talking to a former Death Eater or something?"

"Not likely," Harry assures him. "It's the youth division I'm working in anyway. Most of the Death Eaters were a lot older than us, right?"

None of them mention Malfoy or Goyle, who've managed to stay out of the public eye since the Battle of Hogwarts.

"Anyway, they're . . . interesting . . .there's this one bloke, I think it's a bloke, who did not care for me at all. Really took the piss. He's got a pretty fucked up story though, if I believe it . . ."

"Which you are not allowed to tell us," Hermione interrupts pointedly.

"I know. Wasn't going to. Just. He's a bit of an extra challenge is all."

Hermione smiles like she knows something he doesn't. "Well, you've never shied away from those, have you?" she sighs.

Harry looks to Ron for support, but Ron just tips the last bit of Fanta into his glass and shrugs.

_______

Harry strides into his cubicle and cracks his knuckles out in front of him. Brand new day. Everything will be better. Has to be. Neville pops his head in the door just as Harry is about to get comfortable.

"How's it going, Harry? How was your first day?" He leans on the door jamb with his arms folded, looking much more fit than Hogwarts Neville, damn him.

"Good," Harry says brightly, "if you can count being sworn at and ducked out on good."

"Sounds like a regular day at the office for me," Neville quips, unfazed.

"Never mentioned your regular," Harry says, careful to keep his eyes on his desk, and the accusation out of his voice.

"Ah, so you've met case 711."

"You've numbered him?"

"Well, I needed something to call him, so I just chose the date he first called the centre."

"I call him Mr. Snark," Harry mutters, and sees Neville hold back a grin.

"Nicknaming the callers already, Harry? That cynical, are you? S'okay as long as you don't say it out loud. He's really not so bad, though. Sounds like the war did a number on him, eh?"

"He didn't mention the war," says Harry, surprised.

"Best not talk any more about it." Neville fidgets with his tie. "I shouldn't have said that. We have to keep caller confidentiality, even within the office. Sorry, Harry, I'll be going."

"Cheers, Nev."

Harry settles into his chair with a frown. It's true Neville shouldn't have told him that. He'd rather not know or speculate how the caller had been involved in the war. It could easily bias him. But now that he does know he finds himself thinking of ways to get Mr. Snark to tell him himself.

He hears the familiar cracking and looks up.

"Hullo?"

Harry's heart rate picks up again. Bloody posh accent. "Firecall Crisis Line," he responds. "It's the new one again," he adds drily before the voice has a chance to make a snide remark.

"Expected as much," says the voice.

"Ready for your questions?"

"Go on then."

"Noxious substances?"

"No."

"Attempts on your own life?"

"No."

"Harming yourself or others?"

"No."

"Impromptu river swimming?" It's a risk, and one he could probably lose this job over, but Harry can't seem to help himself. He needs a reaction from this stranger like he hasn't needed anything for a long time.

A pause. "You--"

"Bastard?" Harry finishes.

"Wanker."

"Hm, always a difficult choice between the two, but I think wanker is more what I was going for. Well spotted."

Another pause. "Do you . . . speak to all your callers this way?"

"Oh no, just you." Harry reclines a little in his seat, enjoying this too much. "You're the only one who has sworn at me and ducked out on me (so far) so you get special treatment."

"Hm," is the only response, and Harry panics that he's gone too far. Why is he panicking? Even if he never hears from this person again it shouldn't matter to him personally. It's a stranger. Someone he knows nothing about, who could be anyone. And yet.

"But I suppose I shouldn't let that get to me," Harry continues, leaning forward again. "Once you live through a war you should really develop a thicker skin, right?"

"Hm," The voice says again.

"Only I . . ." Harry shouldn't be doing this, he knows it, but keeping the attention of Mr. Snark has somehow turned into the most important thing. "Only I still have nightmares about it," he says, trying to sound casual, "So I suppose my skin isn't as thick as it should be."

The caller is silent and still for a moment. Then he says quietly, "I have nightmares almost every night. It's one of the reasons I . . . wanted to . . . you know."

"Oh. I see." Harry doesn't know how to interact with Mr. Snark now that he's being vulnerable and not snarky at all. It's quite disconcerting.

"But I suppose it's good I was unsuccessful. With my history, who knows what's waiting for me on the other side. Talk about nightmares."

Harry shivers involuntarily. This has taken a rather dark turn. "Everyone can make amends," he says, quoting one of the cheesy self-help books Hermione gave him last year.

"Yes, and hugs and kittens fix everything. You really are horrid at this, aren't you?"

"I'm doing my best," he says defensively, secretly relieved to hear the drawl returning to the caller's once. "And it's kisses and puppies, if you must know." Where did that come from?

"Ah, so I've been going about it all wrong then. All this time . . . such a pity."

And there it is. The invisible smile he's been waiting for without knowing he's been waiting for it. His stomach flips over and his cheeks heat up. Hmm. That's probably not appropriate.

The call ends shortly after that, with the promise of another check in tomorrow, leaving Harry at his desk to mull over some uncomfortable ideas.

He's known for a while that he prefers men, not that he's done anything about it, and he's only told one person--the one person he couldn't really avoid telling if he wanted to end things properly. And she'd been more understanding than he could have hoped. But it's weighing on him now. He's pushed it back, thinking he'll consider dating once he's got the rest of his life figured out, but there are times when he wishes he could just test the waters a bit.

It might be time, despite his misgivings. Because otherwise he'll end up flirting with an anonymous crisis line caller and have to face the humiliation of leaving another job just a few weeks in. Damn it. He reaches for his quill.

______

_Dear Ginny,_

_It's been a while since I've heard from you. I hope you're alright. I don't suppose you'll tell me whether or not you've decided to return to Hogwarts next year, and that's okay. But I do hope you're considering it. The Quidditch team misses you. Eighth year wasn't so bad, really. I think it would do you some good. Anyway, the reason I'm writing is I was wondering if I might come by for a visit at the burrow. There's something I need to talk about. It would be nice to see Molly again too, if she'll have me._

_Yours,  
Harry_

______

_Dear Harry,_

_Please come. Mum's done nothing but bake since I got your owl and I'll have doubled in size if you don't show up in the next twenty four hours. Do you know how many variations there are on classic treacle tart? Seventeen and counting._

_Yours,  
Ginny_

______

"Harry! You've grown six inches since I've seen you last and haven't gained a pound." Molly envelops him in a fierce hug that threatens to snap his bones, making him wonder if perhaps her exaggeration is on point.

"Why d'you think I'm here?" He says into her hair, and hugs her back. "Ginny tells me you've made enough pudding to feed an army. Er, that is . . ." He takes a step back.

"Indeed I have," Molly answers with high pitched enthusiasm, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. Her face has hollowed out a little, and her clothes seem to hang on her robust frame. It makes Harry wince, but she doesn't notice. "And enough to take some back to Ronald, assuming he's behaving himself."

"Dunno how to answer that," he grins cheekily, "so I will decline to comment."

He hears Ginny come creaking down the stairs before he sees her skip down the last two steps. Her fiery hair is gathered to one side and falls over her shoulder, nearly reaching her hips. She's only become more breathtaking, he thinks, but feels nothing but comfortable affection for her. Things would have been so much easier if they'd been in love.

"Harry," she says with a soft smile.

"Gin!" He strides towards her and takes her in his arms. "It's so good to see you."

"You too." She leans into him for a moment before breaking away.

"I'll put the kettle on and leave you two to talk!" Molly calls as she bustles into the kitchen.

"She's not hoping . . ." Harry gestures between the two of them awkwardly.

"Oh, who knows." Ginny sighs. "But I'm not, so you needn't worry there."

"I know. But it is . . . sort of about that . . . why I'm here."

Ginny's forehead creases momentarily. "Oh really? We'd better sit down first."

Both of them sink into the tattered sofa closest to the fireplace. Harry stares into the grate, as if trying to gather courage for what he is about to say next.

"Gin, remember why we broke up?" He asks without looking at her.

Ginny startles beside him before answering. She smooths out invisible creases in her jeans gives him a wry smile. "It's not the sort of thing one forgets, Harry."

"Right . . . right," he says distractedly. "And you remember how I said I haven't told anyone, and don't really want to do anything about it just yet?

"Yes?" Is it just him or does she look a little bit excited?

"Well, it's just . . . now I'm wondering if I should do . . . something? It's just getting a little harder to ignore, is all."

She smiles and nods. "Finding yourself fancying someone then?" She asks with a conspiratorial smirk.

"I mean, not exactly. Just, little things here and there. Y'know I caught myself thinking how fit Neville was looking the other day?"

"You fancy Neville?" Ginny gasps.

"No!" Harry almost shouts. This is coming out all wrong. "No, no. But like, he's actually grown into himself rather well?" Harry groans and buries his face in his hands. "Nevermind Neville."

"And his newly toned arms," Ginny adds. "What?" She says innocently when Harry lets out an exasperated sigh. "I saw him by the hospital the other day while picking up something for Mum. He was carrying a flat of dragonfly succulents and well, let me tell you . . ."

"Gin! Could we focus?"

"Yes, sorry. Back to your problem. Which is what, exactly?"

Harry shoots her a look.

Ginny laughs. "Sorry! But you aren't being very clear."

"Well, my life isn't fucking clear right now!" Unfortunately this is the moment Molly has decided to return with tea and five kinds of treacle tart.

"Harry! Such language!" She admonishes as she sets a tray on the table in front of him.

"Sorry, Molly," he says sheepishly. "That looks delicious." He takes a plate and forks a huge bite into his mouth, which placates her immediately. She disappears back into the kitchen.

"Okay, start over." Ginny prompts, managing an impressively large bite of treacle herself.

"I think I need help meeting someone," he says, scarcely believing he's just said it. "I mean, I find myself wanting to flirt with crisis callers for fuck's sake . . ."

"Merlin," Ginny sucks in between clenched teeth, "that is pretty sad. I mean bad." She giggles. "So . . . what? Someone calls you and tells you about their tragic life and you want to ask them what they're wearing?"

"Bloody hell, I knew I shouldn't have told you."

"You have to admit it's funny."

"No, I don't. And it's not like that anyway. It's just one bloke, just. . . banter I guess . . ."

"Ah, the oblivious idiot's love language. I know it well," she quips.

"Shut up. Worked on you, didn't it?"

"Define 'worked.'"

Harry sighs. He knows when he's beaten. "Help?" He pleads.

Ginny tosses an arm around his shoulders. "Absolutely, love. I'd be happy to set you up."

Whoa, whoa. That's a bit much. "Fuck, no, I just meant--"

"Don't care what you meant. That's what I'm offering," she says firmly, reminding him of Molly.

"That's your solution? Go out and date the first man you find me? It's a little rich coming from you isn't it? Hiding out here with your Mum?"

That was too far, and he knows it. Ginny jumps back slightly as if stung.

"You know what? Fuck you. I'm trying to help. And you don't know what it's like here." She lowers her voice to a whisper, "If it weren't for me she would have no one! Dad's at work all day, and my brothers come by maybe once a week! She'll go crazy! Do you think I want to be here?" Tears drip off her nose and she wipes them furiously.

He knows she's right. And he's been a dick to the only person who knows who he really is. Before he knows it he's swiping at his own eyes with the cuff of his sleeve. "I'm so sorry, Gin. Don't know why I'm such a shit sometimes. You're probably right. About everything. It's fucking terrifying, to be honest."

"Okay," she sighs shakily. "I really do want to help."

They hug, and it calms them both.

"Double date, then?" He asks with a crooked smile. "Really, you should chat Neville up."

" _You_ should chat Neville up!" She laughs and punches him in the arm.

"I'm 100% sure he's straight. And he does ask about you sometimes, you know."

"Yeah?" Her eyebrows lift and she tries unsuccessfully to hide a smile.

"I mean, he did once. After I brought you up . . ."

"Harry! You really should have been in Slytherin!"

"Guilty," he admits. "But he'd be crazy not to want to date you."

"You know what?" Ginny's eyes have a mischievous glint to them that Harry isn't sure he trusts. "Let's both go for it. You set me up with Neville and I'll set you up with a mystery man."

"Goody," Harry rolls his eyes, but he does feel a bit lighter. "A double date?"

"Merlin, no, those are awful."

"A blind date? Seriously?"

"Seriously, Harry Potter. I'm setting it up. I'm choosing the place and the person and all you have to do is show up and look decent. Think you can manage?"

Harry shakes his head in admiration. "I come here with a problem and I leave with a date. Only you . . ."

She kisses his forehead. "I'll always love you, you know."

He relaxes his head into the crook of her neck and tightens his hand on hers. "I know."


	3. Three

The next morning Harry is ready to do his job properly. No quasi-flirting. So he tries not to be disappointed when 11:00 rolls around and Mr. Snark has yet to call. He's answered three other calls in the meantime, talking to someone who's just lost their pet, which hits startlingly close to home for him, to someone who lives with death eater sympathisers and wants to leave but is terrified to do so, and someone who admitted to being addicted to muggle drugs. He had to call Neville in for resources on the last two. All in all, it's been a fulfilling morning. He shouldn't need anything else. In one hour, he'll be done for the day, and this evening it's the Leaky with Ron and Hermione. He paces back and forth in front of the darkened fireplace, wondering what kind of man Ginny would set him up with. Does she even know any gay men? Maybe some Quidditch players?

As if on cue, an owl raps urgently at his window. He creaks it open just far enough to let it in. The owl deposits an envelope on his desk and swoops back out, stealing a tea biscuit on its way.

"Hey!" Harry chuckles. That's a Weasley owl if he's ever sen one. He eyes the cold, dark fireplace once more before tearing into the letter.

_Dear Harry,_

_You have a date tomorrow evening at Dans Le Noir. Don't worry about looking decent, but do be on time. 7:30 sharp.  You're welcome!_

_Yours,  
Gin_

She certainly hasn't wasted any time. If Harry hadn't known better he'd think she'd been planning to set him up for ages. Dans Le Noir . . . he's heard of that place before. It's a muggle establishment, he thinks, but there's some sort of gimmick about it. His French is nonexistent so that doesn't help. He'll have to ask Ron and Hermione about it tonight. When he tells them everything else . . .

______

Harry slides into the booth across from his friends with a tight smile.

"Harry! Beginning to think you weren't coming!" Hermione signals the waiter, then worries her eyes at him. "You don't look yourself."

"Well, er, I have to tell you something." He picks up a napkin and starts tearing tiny pieces off of it.

Ron furrows his brow. "Can't be good if you're murdering a napkin."

"Not good or bad exactly." This is already so much harder than he expected. "I just have to get it out and over with."

"Well, fuck, Harry, don't keep us in suspense."

Harry looks Ron in the eyes, then shifts to Hermione, then back to Ron. He takes a deep breath. "Pretty sure I'm gay. And Ginny set me up on a blind date. With a guy."

Hermione and Ron gape back at him.

"I know. Surprised me too, honestly."

The waiter comes by with their usual pitcher of ale and basket of chips.

Hermione gathers herself first. "We love you, Harry, and we want you to be happy." The "we" in her statement doesn't go unnoticed. Sometimes it feels like she and Ron are his stand-in guardians or something. He looks to Ron to see if he'll agree with what Hermione has just said on behalf of them both. Ron nods, dazedly. Hermione continues. "Does Ginny know?"

"Yes. She's known for ages actually," he says into his glass, hoping they won't be upset he didn't come to them first.

Ron finds his voice. "How is Ginny?"

"She's surprisingly good--about this anyway." he says honestly. He makes a mental note to talk to Ron about Molly later.

Hermione gives him a tentative smile. "How long have you known?"

"Sort of hard to say, to be honest. I didn't stop to think about it until the war had been over for a while. But now everyone else's lives are falling into place and I've had some time to think. Too much time to think," he says grimly.

Hermione nods. "Are you . . . sure?"

"As sure as I can be without ever having kissed or dated a man or even allowed myself to think about it, you mean?" He hopes Hermione doesn't take his sharp tone at face value. It's just not the kind of thing he knows how to explain. He can hardly explain it to himself.

"Of course." She flushes. "Sorry Harry."

"S'okay."

"Alright. So Ginny's setting you up?"

"She's amazing," Harry says fondly, meeting Ron's eyes again. "I also sort of promised to set her up with Neville."

Ron's face breaks into a grin, much to Harry's unexpected relief. "I've been trying to get Nev to chat Ginny up for ages! Wasn't sure how you'd feel about it though. He's such a good bloke, you know?"

"I know, and, well . . ."

"Not bad on the eyes now either, is he Harry?" Hermione giggles.

Harry feels himself blush, just because it's all so new to be talking to his friends like this. "No comment. Be kind to poor Ron, now."

"Yes," Ron says indignantly. "Be kind to poor Ron."

"Anyway, so . . . I have a date. It's at Dans Le Noir. Is that some fancy French place?"

Hermione's eyes light up. "Dans Le Noir! I've always wanted to try that!" She laughs to herself and shakes her head. "A blind date. Ginny's a clever girl."

Ron and Harry both stare back at her blankly.

"How do you mean?" Harry wonders what's so clever about choosing a French restaurant.

"You haven't heard of it? Dans Le Noir! It means In the Dark. You can't see anything at all. All of the serving staff is blind and all of the diners eat in the pitch black. It sounds brilliant! Ron, you and I should go sometime!"

"No thanks," Ron says, "I've enough trouble trying strange food when I can see it."

Harry is quiet. On the one hand, he can see the appeal of not having to make eye contact with a stranger and being able to allow himself to relax without feeling watched. On the other hand, he thinks he might actually want to see the person he's dating. Why would Ginny choose that for him? He trusts her though, and often fails to give her enough credit, so she must have her reasons . . .

"Are you going?" Ron asks.

"Yeah," he sighs. "I trust Ginny. Scared as hell, though."

"What? Our Harry? Saviour of the Wizarding World? Scared of a blind date?" Ron elbows him. "Besides, can't be worse than finding a date to the Yule Ball, can it?"

Harry laughs. "Or dancing at the Yule Ball, for that matter."

Ron groans. "Don't remind me."

"You brought it up."

"Obliviate me next time I do that, would you?"

"Only if you return the favour."

"Consider it done."

The night ends with Twenty Questions, a favourite of theirs since the war, a quick way to lighten any conversation. But this time they're only a few questions in before it devolves into listing men they know and Harry saying whether or not he would date them if they asked. He laughs along, gratitude swelling his heart once again.

"Oliver Wood?"

"Yes," Harry concedes with a smirk.

"Fair enough, even I can see that," Ron jokes.

"Touche," Hermione raises her eyebrows.

"Dean?"

"No. None of Ginny's exes. Too weird."

"Seamus?"

"Yeah, okay."

"Neville?"

"Enough with Neville!"

"One of Ginny's futures anyway, right Harry?"

"Here's hoping."

"Charlie?"

"Ron!" Hermione smacks him playfully. "The rest of your family is off limits I would think!"

"Well, he needs to marry in somehow! Besides, we've always wondered . . ."

"Yes, for Ron's sake," Harry says with mock sincerity. "And Molly's. I would give it my best." Though secretly he has always thought Charlie an attractive combination of charming and dangerous.

"He's joking of course Harry. You'll always be family. To both of us."

"I know."

"Okay, last one: Malfoy."

Malfoy's face flashes before him, dredging up memories of heat, pain and fear. And . . . something else. He doesn't realise how long he's been staring into space until Ron's shaking him.

"Sorry mate, got carried away. Shouldn't've said that." Ron's face is red as a tomato.

Hermione is shooting Ron a death glare mingled with disbelief.

Harry hates that everything has suddenly become dark and serious, so he forces himself to bring it back to the surface.

"He had pretty hair didn't he? And a decent arse, if I recall."

Hermione guffaws and Ron spews out a mouthful chips.

"I'll take your word on that one mate."

They all go home smiling.

____

Harry arrives at Dans Le Noir precisely at 7:30. And fuck yes, he's nervous. He's taken Ginny's advice to heart and not fussed too much on his appearance, but he hasn't neglected it either. What if the date goes really well and they decide to go somewhere else after? But he can't think about that possibility too much or his nerves will wreck him completely. He's greeted by the hostess, who asks if he has a reservation.

"Yes, under the name Ginerva." He says it so quickly she asks him to repeat it. Bloody calm down. Breathe, for fuck's sake.

"Ah, of course! Your guest is waiting for you in the dining room. Allow us to take your coat. Michelle will take you to your seat."

Harry is led from the front desk to a dimly list vestibule, then into total black nothingness. Michelle holds onto his arm and deftly leads him, weaving between what he can only assume are tables and chairs and people. After what feels like an eternity, she stops walking. "And here we are. Your server will be along shortly with drinks and appetizers. Enjoy your evening, gentlemen!"  She guides his hand to the top of a chair, which he pulls out slowly.

"Thank you," he says to her, keenly aware that he has been the first to speak on this date.

"Yes, thank you," says a deep, refined voice from across what seems to be quite a small table.

Harry gulps. This is so weird. "Er, hi," he says into the darkness. "I'm Harry."

A pause. "Hullo. I'm Adrock."

Another bloody posh accent. Merlin save him from hot posh accents because otherwise he's got a very particular type. And what kind of name is Adrock?

"I know it's weird," Adrock says, reading his mind. "Old family name. I'd reach out and shake your hand properly but Salazar knows where it would end up."

Harry chokes on a laugh and is suddenly grateful no one can see the colour his face is surely turning. "Good to meet you. How'd you know Ginny?"

"Ginerva and I met through my work. I'm a portrait artist. For the last couple of years I've been working pro bono, painting portraits of those who fell in the war."

Fell in the war. Such a poetic way of saying something so awful.

"So . . . Fred?" Harry frowns. Ginny never mentioned this at all. It doesn't sound like something the Weasleys would want. But he supposes he hasn't talked to them about it much. War changes people.

"Yes."

"Interesting." And it is. But he feels stupid for saying something so boring. "You must be very busy."

"Not as busy as you'd think," is the brusque reply. "But I'm glad to help where I can. It gives me some peace."

"Well, good for you. That's what we're all looking for I suppose."

"Hm."

Just then, Harry feels a tap on his shoulder.

"Good evening. My name is Pierre and I will be your server. You've ordered the White menu tonight, correct?"

Harry has no idea what the waiter is talking about. "Er . . ."

"Yes," Adrock says. "With a bottle of the Chateau Riesling, please."

"Very good, sir." Harry feels another tap on his shoulder, which he takes to mean the waiter has left.

"I'm glad you know what you're doing at least."

"It's not my first time here."

"Oh no? I assumed this was Ginny's idea. But it was yours?"

"Joint effort," Adrock says dismissively, but he doesn't sound as confident as before.

"Do you bring all your dates here?" Harry asks in what he hopes is a friendly, teasing tone but fuck if he really knows at all. It's been so long since he's had to flirt. He wonders if he's ever actually done it or if all of his prior relationships happened by default.

"Oh yes, because I have ever so many," Adrock drawls. Harry knows it's a a joke but he can't help wondering just how many really. Does it matter if Adrock has a ton of experience and he has none?

"I'm sure that's true, if your face matches your voice." Did he really just say that? He did. Well, he meant it. It's a sexy voice.

"Was that a compliment?" He can hear the smile and he likes it very much. Very much.

"That's how I meant it, yeah." He's becoming accustomed to the dark and the boldness it gives him. What other risks might he take before the night is out?

"Then, thank you."

Harry rubs his palms on his thighs. He feels light headed. "I'm pretty new at this. Brand new, actually. Did Ginny mention that?"

"No," says Adrock softly. "But you're doing very well. I'm quite new myself."

"Erm, thanks. Yeah? You sound so confident. Have you been . . . out for a while?" Harry stretches his hands out in front of him and accidentally brushes against Adrock's bare arm. Both of them jump, but Adrock recovers quickly. Harry doesn't know whether to apologize or pretend he did it on purpose, so he does neither. He moves his hand over a little, back into neutral territory.

"I'm not out, generally speaking. I don't have a lot of friends to tell and my dear mother would be mortified, I think. So establishments like these actually serve more than one purpose."

"Oh. So . . . you're hiding?"

"Merlin, you don't have to make it sound so dramatic. I believe the term is 'being discreet.'"

" I see. And what's the other purpose?" Harry asks, quite curious now.

"Well you hit that nail on the head already. I'm devastatingly handsome, you see, and I don't want to distract everyone else and their average looking dates."

Harry laughs, relaxing a little. "How noble of you. I'm dating the whole package then, aren't I? You're famous too, I suppose?"

"So famous I'm infamous," he says drily, and Harry wonders what he means by that.

The waiter arrives with wine served in tumblers, as well as the first course. Harry picks up his fork hesitantly. "It feels strange not to know what I'm putting in my mouth." Heat flares up his neck. "It also feels strange that I just said that."

Adrock gives a low chuckle. "You're cute."

"Is that a compliment?" Harry mirrors the words because all other words have deserted him after a man has called him cute for the first time in his life. Even if said man can't see him to confirm.

"Yes."

"Thanks."

"Harry?" The way Adrock says his name makes him bite his lip like some harlequin heroine. Darkness is his best friend.

"Yeah?" He breathes.

"Here. Let me."

Harry hears a muted clink on his plate and suddenly feels two slender fingers graze his jaw. They slide to his mouth and push gently on his bottom lip. He opens obediantly, then feels the fork slide in and is greeted with the most delicious creamy taste he's ever experienced. He closes his mouth and swallows while his tastebuds practically sing. But that's not the only part of him that's excited. Yeah, so, he's definitely gay.

"Fucking hell . . ." He rasps. "I don't know what that was but it was amazing."

"They like to keep the menu a surprise until the end. So you liked it?"

"Uhm, Yeah. Thought I was clear about that."

"Good." Adrock sounds unbearably smug, which makes Harry wants to do something about it.

"I can show you, if you like." Is he really doing this? He's really doing this.

"Oh?" And Adrock is definitely playing along.

Harry's fork makes more of an undignified clattering sound but he doesn't care. He's not using it. He leans over the table and moves his hand until it rests on Adrock's forearm. It's muscular and angular at once. Adrock breathes in sharply. Harry follows the line up to Adrock's shoulders, pulls him closer, then moves his hand up slowly to the back of Adrock's neck. He can feel his hair. It's soft and fine. He's quite sure if he could see it it would be positively glossy. For some reason he pictures it blond.

Their lips meet in the dark over the unnamed delicacies on the table. Adrock's mouth is soft and wet and open and gods Harry wants nothing more than to taste more of it. So he does. He licks across Adrock's bottom lip before pressing hard and sliding his tongue into his mouth. He's met with a jolt of surprise as Adrock pushes back and strokes Harry's tongue with his own, his hands in Harry's hair. It's different and strange and intoxicating and hot. Harry is sure that nothing could be hotter than kissing a man silently in a crowded pitch black restaurant. Well, he can think of maybe one or two things . . .

Adrock breaks the kiss, much to Harry's dismay. "You were right," he murmurs into Harry's ear, sending sparks of electricity through him. "That was amazing."

Harry leans back, his pulse pounding in his ears. Fuck. "Yeah." He catches his breath and adjusts his trousers. It occurs to him that he could shove his hand down there and no one would be the wiser. It's tempting. But no, he's not an animal for Merlin's sake. He can get through his first gay date without tossing off under the table.

"Was that your first . . ." Adrock trails off.

"Kiss with a bloke, yeah."

"And?"

"And I could get used to it."

"Me too," Adrock nudges Harry's knee with his under the table. It's an innocent and playful gesture, or it would be with anyone else, but not here, not now. It's torture.

They finish the first course in agonising silence, which is still delicious even when it's not being fed to him. But it could be sawdust for all he cares. Food is the last thing on his mind. He can't do much about what is on his mind, however, since Pierre will be returning with the second course at any moment. Harry forces himself to focus.

"So . . . What made you get into art? I don't know of any wizard artists."

"That's not surprising," Adrock says matter-of-factory. "I've always enjoyed it, but my family didn't approve. It's still largely a muggle occupation. I gave it up completely during the war. I gave up . . . I gave up a lot during the war."

It's not a subject he wants to talk about just now, but Harry doesn't want to be rude. "Me too. It's funny. My owl died? And sometimes I think I miss her most of all out of everything. I had her ever since I knew I was a wizard. I guess it's not funny. It's stupid, really." He's rambling now and feels utterly ridiculous.

Adrock doesn't respond. Harry is sure he's said the wrong thing. Then . . . wait a minute. Does Adrock know who he is? He hasn't lied about anything, but this whole thing was set up so fast, with Ginny telling him so little, so he realizes he doesn't know what Ginny told Adrock. He doesn't even know if he would have wanted her to.

"Adrock?"

"Yes?"

"Do you . . . know who I am?" And fuck, he hates how's just said that. Like he's some sort of celebrity or politician. But he can't escape it.

Adrock is quiet again. Fuck.

"Adrock?"

"Ginevra didn't tell me. But I can guess." His voice is icy now. Harry flinches.

"Does that change things?" Harry demands, feeling his shoulders tense and his fists clench. Is being Harry Potter going to fuck this up too?

"I'm afraid it does." Harry hears the chair being pushed back, hears the shuffling of Adrock's feet, and then a very faint pop. He's disapparated.


	4. Four

Draco can't blame Ginny. She doesn't know it's a lie. He never dreamed the man she wanted to set him up with would not only be her ex, but Harry Fucking Potter himself.

Even when the man had introduced himself as Harry, Draco didn't let his mind go there. Harry is a very common British name, he had reasoned. And Potter had never once given any public indication of being interested in men. (Then again, neither had he.) And the voice . . . it could go either way. Whenever the two of them had spoken to one another at Hogwarts they hadn't exactly played nice. He didn't know what Civil Harry sounded like. Or Friendly Harry. Or Flirty Harry. Or Drop Dead Sexy Please Let Me Shag You Under the Table Harry.

Now he knew. But then Potter had to go and ruin it by talking about his owl. Everyone knows about Hedwig for Merlin's sake. They've done entire pieces on her in the Prophet. Snowy Owls sell for three times the price of any other breed now. And then he asked that fucking question. "Do you know who I am?" He couldn't pretend after that. And if Potter ever found out . . . Hell, hell, hell no. But he won't.

And it's too bad. Unsurprising, considering how his life has turned out thus far, but too bad. He'd actually been looking forward to the date. He hadn't bothered with the glamour--just the name. If it had gone well enough he would have stepped into the light and let the man decide for himself if him being Draco Malfoy was a problem. Maybe the man would have seen him as one who was really trying to redeem himself, to be better. He already was better, after all. It wasn't just that he was trying to appear that way. And perhaps there was someone out there who would take his word at face value again. But Potter never would. Not in a million years. Not even if the kiss between them rivalled fiendfyre in its intensity.

Which it had. Fucking hell.

And now he'll have to bugger up his evening with a call to the centre. He hates calling at night. He prefers to be painting or sleeping when the sky goes dark. It doesn't do to dwell on things then; it cuts too close. He'd been so preoccupied with the idea of his first date in months that he'd forgotten to call at all yesterday. And this morning he'd slept right through the usual call hours. The rest of the day is booked up with Adroc consults, so he'll have to make up for it by checking in this evening with one of the stand-ins. If he goes longer than 48 hours without checking in, the higher ups get involved and Merlin, he doesn't want that again.

He's been doing well, or he had been prior to the anonymous-date-with-Potter fuckup. It's been a long time since he's seriously thought of putting an end to things. That's not to say it never crosses his mind, but it's easier to manage now. He doesn't hover over every bridge anymore, or pause before crossing a busy street. He doesn't hold the razor sharply against his own neck when shaving, wondering just how long it would take to bleed out. It's interesting, objectively at least, that the only methods that ever appealed to him were entirely muggle. Another form of penance, perhaps. They died by magic, so he would die by common violence. But no, he doesn't need to. He'll pay in other ways, has been paying. It's been easier since he created Adroc. But he knows that can't last forever either. It's been a stepping stone, and he can feel his feet moving towards the next step, whether he's ready or not.

He approaches the Burrow with the finished portrait of Fred in hand and sighs. He will have to tell Ginny. It isn't working anyway, this whole hiding while improving oneself plan. He can't hide from himself. And besides that, it's utterly exhausting. But the starving artist will have to be the one to knock on the door or he won't make it as far as the front lawn.

He raps at the weatherbeaten door. Molly answers.

"Hello dear--Oh." Her eyes fall on the portrait and fill up immediately. "Oh. It's perfect. How did you?" She cups her hand over her mouth and closes her eyes, letting the tears fall.

Draco smiles in spite of himself. He's proud of his work. It isn't easy to compete with moving photographs and talking portraits. Doing things the muggle way requires an extra skill--a way of capturing someone's essence in one still shot and letting it hold you. He has studied a lot since the war, visiting every art museum he could, buying every art book he found. No one there to stop him now. He's found a technique that suits him--broad brush strokes and vivid colours, the finished result somehow soft and sharp at once. He spends most of his time on the eyes, and takes great satisfaction in getting them perfect.

"Ginny! Ginny, dear come here!" Molly cries, beckoning from the front step. She turns back to Draco, "Oh, where is my head? Come in, Adrock! I've just finished a brambleberry pie." She takes the portrait from him and walks through the door smiling down at it. Draco follows her.

Ginny sits at the desk in the corner and looks up at Draco. "Adrock! I didn't expect you!" She smiles slyly. Potter must not have told her about last night yet. She's probably rabid for details, but she knows better than to ask him while Molly is present.

"Ginny, look! He's finished it!" Molly beckons again. She could just turn it around in her arms to show Ginny, but she can't seem to take her eyes from it long enough to do so.

Ginny raises her eyebrows and he can guess what she's thinking. And she's not wrong. If he had time to finish the portrait last night, the date must not have gone well. He meets her gaze and shakes his head. She frowns.

"Ginevra! It's impolite to ignore someone who's trying to get your attention."

Ginny sighs. When Molly had hired him, Ginny had confided that while she was sure his work was very good, she wasn't sure if her mother's obsession with mourning Fred was entirely healthy. They already had so many photographs, and Molly wouldn't let a day go by without going through them, as if it would be some sort of betrayal to enjoy a day without seeing his face. Draco understood Ginny's concern. His mother was like that about his father, who had been executed six months ago. It was one of the reasons he could hardly stand being at the manor. But he has to fulfill every commission request. He finds he can't do otherwise. So many people he feels responsible for. So many deaths on his hands. So even though he doesn't have her approval, he hopes Ginny will see he's at least done a decent job.

Molly is still gazing down at the portrait.

"Alright, Mum, put it down so I can have a proper look," Ginny huffs.

Molly leans down slowly and places the portrait on the floor, propped against the wall, then backs away. Ginny ambles towards her and looks over Molly's shoulder to see the portrait. An audible gasp escapes her lips.

"You see?" Molly says softly. "It's perfect."

Ginny looks away, wiping her eyes, then back. "It's so . . . it's so . . . him. Adrock, how did you . . ."

"That's what I said, dear," Molly whispers, reaching behind her for Ginny's hand.

Draco doesn't want to ruin the moment, but he does want to leave and he's not doing it without telling the truth. He clears his throat.

"I'm so pleased you like it," he begins.

"Like doesn't begin to describe it!" Molly gushes. "You must let us pay you something!" His resolve weakens momentarily. If she knew who he was, would she feel the same way?

"Absolutely not," he says, brushing her aside. "It was my pleasure. But if you don't mind, I need to speak to Ginerva about a private matter before I go."

"Of course!" Molly waves them off.

"In the garden, Adrock?" Ginny asks.

Draco nods.

Once outside, Ginny nudges him. "Soooooo . . ."

He tries to smile. "Soooooo. I'm sorry. I didn't go well."

Ginny. "Really? It didn't?"

Draco shakes his head. "No. Is there any particular reason you declined to tell me you were sitting me up with Harry Potter, who also happens to be your ex-boyfriend?"

Ginny shifts her weigh uncomfortably. "Well, I . . . you probably won't believe me because you don't know him, but he seems so lonely. I thought you two would be good together. And I wanted him to make the choice to tell you who he was. That's why I was so in favour of that Noir place. I suppose I thought that sort of thing should happen naturally. It didn't go well at all?"

Draco hesitates. Potter, lonely? It's never crossed his mind. But it doesn't matter. It doesn't. "It went well until I knew who he was."

Ginny narrows her eyes. "And then what?"

"And then I left," he says flatly.

"And then you what?" Ginny fumes. "You left him there? In the bloody dark?"

"I'm sorry. If you knew, you would understand."

"I don't think so. Adrock, it took a lot for Harry to trust me with all of this. How could you do that? Do you hate him or something?"

"No," Draco says firmly. And it's true; he doesn't. "I did it because . . . Because the truth is . . ."

Ginny arches an eyebrow. He's not getting away until he finishes that sentence.

"Look. Harry and Adroc would be great together. But Harry and I would not." He slides his wand out of his pocket and points it at himself. "Revelio."

The paint-splattered jeans and white cut-off t-shirt disintegrate to reveal navy blue wizard robes. The mane of tawny brown curls falls away as his glossy platinum locks settle perfectly into place. Blue eyes fade to grey.

Ginny stands frozen and gaping.

"I'm sorry, Ginevra."

The slap across his face is reminiscent of the other time he managed to go too far with one of Potter's female friends. He's deserved it both times, but knowing that does not stop it from stinging. He rubs his jaw and prepares for a proper telling off.

"But you--" she stammers. "And the portrait! And Mum!"

"I know," he says simply.

"Then Harry--"

"So you see."

For a moment it looks as though she'll walk away from him into the house, but instead she stands her ground.

"But it was a good date--before that?"

Draco can't believe what he's hearing. "What?"

"You two. You hit it off?"

"Well . . yes . . . but that's hardly the--"

"And he doesn't know?"

"No."

"Good. Then you're seeing him again."

"What?" Now it's his turn to look incredulous. "Are you a sadist?"

"Look who's talking," she mutters under her breath. And damn it, he deserves that, too.  But her face changes. "I know you aren't who you were, then," she says softly. "I see how you are with Mum. And your portraits have a certain . . . heart to them. That can't be faked. We've all changed." Her eyes glaze over for a moment before she snaps back to him. "So you're going to listen to my idea and you're going to agree with it."

Draco nods dumbly. This fucking day.

"I don't care how you do it--by owl or firecall or singing telegram, but you're apologizing to Harry and asking him out again."

"That's your idea? What if he says no?"

"That's up to him, but at least he won't have to wonder what the hell happened or if it was his fault."

"No, we wouldn't want that would we . . ." He says, more to himself. "You want me to tell him?"

"Whatever you like!" She throws up her hands. "Explain it. Don't explain it. It's your funeral." She steps forward and jabs him in the chest. "But you're going to fix it." The flush of her cheeks drowns out her freckles and wisps of copper hair make a faint halo around her head, curling in the humidity. He has to admit, she's positively radiant when she's angry. He can, for the first time, see how Harry might have been drawn to her.

"Right." He says curtly, swatting her away. "Seeing as I'd like to keep my dignity and my life, I'll go with the glamour then. Unless you think Potter might actually buy the Death-eater-with-a-heart-of-gold bit?"

"Former Death Eater, isn't it?" She glares. He could hug her for it.

"When it comes to Potter, I wouldn't split hairs."

Ginny's expression turns panicked, which doesn't make any sense until he hears an all-too-familiar voice behind him.

"Malfoy?"

Draco whips around to see Harry standing on the lawn staring him down. Does he have to be literally fucking everywhere?

It's more than a stare, really. It's like he's seeing Draco for the first time. Draco unwittingly returns the favour. Potter's grown taller, but he's not the scrawny teenager Draco remembers. His new physique is wiry, his shoulders broadened and his stance confident. But then, Potter always was too confident. And he is classically handsome now, Draco grudgingly observes. Really. Did the universe have to throw that in? Saint Potter the Rogueish?

"What the hell are you doing here?" Potter demands, hand on his wand. But the familiar snarl has lost its edge. It's a half-hearted effort at best. Hm.

"Calm down, Harry," Ginny cuts in. "He works for Adrock. He . . . delivers for him."

So now he's a death-eater-turned-delivery-boy. Adorable.

Potter's mouth twists in confusion. _That mouth kissed me last night_ , Draco can't help thinking. If he were to close his eyes every detail would come rushing back. So he doesn't, of course. But then Potter blinks slowly and musses his hair and the details come rushing back anyway. Fuck. Draco can feel the heat behind his ears.

"Adrock doesn't deliver his own work?" Harry asks doubtfully.

Ginny flushes. "He's very busy! Very in demand." She looks to Draco for help. He just rolls his eyes.

"Clearly, if last night was any indication," Harry mutters.

"Yes, very busy," Draco says too late, recognizing an out when he hears one. "So I'd better be going." He nods towards them, "Potter. Weasley," and makes his way down the walkway.

"Wait a minute!" Ginny calls. She skips over to him. Potter's eyes follow her, occasionally flitting to Draco with thinly veiled suspicion.

"Yes?" He scowls to give his best "bored Draco" impression.

"Stay a while. You might learn something." She tilts her head ever so slightly back in Harry's direction.

"I've learned enough about Potter's dislike for me for a lifetime, thank you. And I doubt he would be forthcoming about anything else while I'm around."

"So don't be around," Ginny shrugs, as if it made all the sense in the world.

"I'm sorry," Draco sneers. "But you aren't actually suggesting I hide in the bushes or something ludicrous so I can eavesdrop on Potter bearing his soul to you?"

"Exactly," Ginny winks. "That is exactly what I am _not_ suggesting."

Draco groans. "Get thee behind me, Salazar."

She gives him a wry smile and casts another furtive glance at Potter, then lowers her voice further."You're a talented wizard Draco. You can do better than hiding in the bushes." With that, she turns on her heel to take Potter's arm and lead him back into the house. Draco walks away. Pretends to walk away? He steps behind a tree to curse under his breath and cast a disillusionment spell. This has got to be one of the most ridiculous things he's ever done, but now that Ginny has planted the idea, his curiousity won't let him reject it.

Settling for a spot just outside the window, Draco leans against the red brick, closing his eyes and straining his ears. He hears Potter first.

"You and Malfoy appeared to be deep in conversation," he observes.

"Nothing you need to worry about," Ginny says airily.

"He wasn't causing trouble?"

"No, Harry, he was doing his job. He seems a decent person now, you know?"

"I don't, and I'm not sure how you do after one interaction, but whatever. I'm not here to talk about him."

"Okay. But before I hear about your hot date, I want to show you something."

Draco hears their footsteps creaking on the floor, drawing nearer to where he is.

"Isn't it wonderful? Adrock painted it."

Harry doesn't respond at first, but Draco thinks he hears an intake of breath.

"It's amazing, Gin. I've never seen anything like it." Draco's heart swells. "He's talented, I'll give him that."

"But that's all?" Ginny prods.

"Well, seeing as he left halfway through our date after I told him who I was, I can't give him much else, no."

"Oh, no. I'm sorry Harry." And she sounds it.

"Don't be. It's not your fault," he sighs. "I guess if he scares that easily, he's not worth it." It hurts, hearing him say it, knowing it's probably true.

"You guess?" Bless the woman.

"Did have a damn good first kiss though." His voice is low and playful. Draco feels the air pulled out of his lungs.

"What!" Ginny squeals. "Was it better than our first kiss?"

"Don't ask me that!" Harry laughs. "It's not fair."

Ginny gasps. "Helga Hufflepuff! It was better, wasn't it?" Draco knows she's doing this partly for his benefit--whether to torture him or encourage him he can't quite decide.

"Gin, our first kiss was great, okay? It was romantic and surprising and very lovely. . . " He trails off.

"Uh-huh . . .lovely like kissing your auntie." She deadpans. "But?"

"But this kiss had . . . it was . . . why am I telling you this?"

"Because I want to know, idiot! Now keep going. This kiss . . . ?" She is admirably relentless, Draco thinks.

"There was . . . chemistry. A lot of chemistry, okay? The way it felt, the way he . . . Shut up!"

"Haven't said a word!"

"But you're smirking, Ginevra Weasley!"

"So? It's not often I get to hear you go on like a lovesick schoolboy."

"Ginny . . ." Potter is pleading now. "Could you not?"

"Okay, okay," she relents. "I'm sorry."

"Good," he says sharply. "Because I can't stop thinking about it and it makes me fucking furious."

"Oh." She sounds like she knows what's coming. Draco, on the other hand, hasn't heard him like this before. He's heard him angry plenty of times, but this is different.

"Yeah," his voice picks up in speed and volume, "I can't believe being Harry Potter is still fucking up my life. Is it too much to ask that I get to go on living like a normal person?"

"No, Harry."

"I didn't ask for this! And now I'm gay too as if that isn't the icing on the fucking cake."

They're quiet. Probably hugging or some Gryffindor thing.

"C'mon Harry, let's have some pie." Hmph. That was supposed to be his pie.

"Yeah, okay. Sorry Gin."

"I know. At least you'll always have Mr. Snark?" She teases. Draco has no idea what she's on about.

"Ha ha, very funny. He stopped calling anyway. I guess I have that effect on men. How's Molly?"

Draco peels himself away from the wall as the conversation inside turns to small talk. Ginny was right. Bloody witch. He learned something alright, but it's not going to help him the way she seemed to think it would. No, quite the opposite. He kicks a cobblestone out of the way and sweeps down the path, waiting until he's around the corner before removing the disillusionment charm.

Potter wanted him. Or something about him anyway. Draco had been himself in everything but name that night, and Potter liked it. Potter is upset that it didn't work out. What is he supposed to do with that information? And now Ginny wants him to go through with it again? Is she completely mad? How would that solve anything?

Once at home in his artist's loft, Draco loses the robes and sprawls out on the futon bed in front of the window. He allows himself, just this once, to think about The Kiss. Potter's musky scent, his mouth tasting of cream, his hand trailing up his neck and threading through Draco's hair. He's completely fucked and he knows it.

_______

_Ginerva,_

_I'll do what we agreed to, but please give me some time to figure out the best course of action. I do not go into this lightly._

_Thank you for your understanding,_

_D.M._

______

_Draco,_

_Of course. We can't thank you enough for the portrait. I think it's going to help Mum somehow. You do good work. Be careful, or people might start thinking you're a good person._

_\--Ginny_

_____

When he wakes the next morning, Draco still hasn't figured out what to do. Last night's call to the centre was no help, the stand-in even greener than the volunteer he usually speaks to. Kept telling him to make a list of pros and cons, whatever the hell that would accomplish. He eyes the fireplace with disdain. The chatty, incompetent volunteer he spoke with last week put him off a bit, but for different reasons. There was something familiar in the exchanges that unsettled him. At least he had a sense of humour though. It there's anything he can't stand it's being coddled. He checks his watch. 11:26 in the morning and he's done nothing all day. His brushes rest clean and dry on his desk. He's got a list of commissions as long as his wand, but he hasn't felt up to starting one yet. With a sigh, he clears the soot away from the grate. He's got to get out of this rut somehow.

He ducks in, speaks the spell and waits.


	5. Five

Harry nurses his tea, allowing its warmth to spread over his fingers and palms while the steam clouds his glasses. It's a blazing hot day outside but someone (he suspects Neville) cast a well-meaning cooling spell on the whole office so now it's positively frigid. Warming charms only work for a few moments before fading. It _would_ be today of course--the day after he's had about four hours of sleep and rushed out without breakfast. He never does that. So now he's cold and tired and hungry and staring at a fireplace with no fire. 

At least Hermione and Ron have had the good sense not to ask him about his date. Maybe Ginny tipped them off. It was certainly the best and worst date he's ever had, followed by the strangest morning he's ever had: running into Malfoy chatting with his ex-girlfriend and seeing the breathtaking art made by the man who ditched him. And then the weirdest dreams he's ever had. Somehow his subconscious managed to amalgamate Mr. Snark, Adrock, and Malfoy into one stunningly gorgeous man, who happened to be painting a portrait of Harry while both kissing him and insulting him. He'd say it's better than the usual nightmares but the jury is still out on that one. At least the nightmares didn't leave him painfully aroused and wondering when Malfoy had started wearing his hair like that.  When _did_ he start wearing his hair like that? The way it grazed his neck at the back . . . Fuck. He really needs more sleep.

A flicker catches his eye through the clouded lenses and he leans forward eagerly, for the promised heat, for the distraction of something, and maybe for just the tiniest shred of hope. The fire bursts to life and the voice that comes through draws a small, stupid smile from him.

"Hullo?"

"Firecall Crisis Centre," he practically booms. "I'm listening."

"Splendid, because I'm talking." Mr. Snark is in fine form.

"Have you managed to stay alive since we last spoke?" Harry says, forgoing any of the check-in formalities and unable to tear his eyes away from the silhouette in front of him.

"Barely. You're that sure it's me then?" The voice says with something like amusement.

"What can I say? You've got a presence," Harry blurts, thinking he should care more about how that sounds but finding he can't. "Go on, then."

"Well," Mr. Snark begins slowly. "Things were going well for a while. And now they aren't."

"I'm afraid that's far too personal and specific," Harry says drily.

"Would you shut it, you incompetent twat? I'm getting to it."

"Ah, so lovely to be appreciated." Harry stretches out a bit, forgetting he ever felt cold. "My apologies," he adds sincerely. At least, he hopes it sounds sincere for how much he's enjoying this.

"As I was saying," the voice says coolly, "Things were going well. But I think they were only going well because I was . . . hiding."

This piques Harry's interest. "Hiding. From what?"

"From whom, you mean."

Harry rolls his eyes. "Fine. Whom."

"Everyone, including myself, as it happens." Oh dear. Vulnerability again. Why did he ever think this position was a good idea? And it's not that Harry doesn't care. He does. That's the problem.

"Oh. Care to elaborate?"

"I'm seeing someone. Or at least, I was."

"Oh." Harry's throat tightens. This is unexpected. This is . . . He's not sure what this is. He waits for Mr. Snark to continue.

"But he doesn't know who I am. And I think if he did, he wouldn't be interested. In fact, that's probably an understatement."

A flurry of questions swirls through Harry's head. Who are you? He? Who is he? And why not? Mustering up his most casual, disinterested tone, he decides to focus on the last one. "Why are you so sure he wouldn't be interested?"

"My past," is the simple response.

"Everyone has a past . . ." Harry muses.

"Again with the platitudes." The voice says sharply. "This is bigger than platitudes."

"I'm sorry. I'm really not very good at this," Harry offers feebly. "But really, you don't think this person--he--you don't think he could get over it? If you're good together? If he's interested? You said things were going well." There he goes saying all the wrong things again.

The shadow shakes his head. "I don't think it will surprise you to know that my family was on the wrong side of the war. And as far as anyone knows, I haven't made any reparations to suggest otherwise."

_As far as anyone knows._ Harry turns the phrase over and over. "But you have?"

"I have what?"

"Made reparations. Just not . . . publicly."

"Is that a statement or a question?"

Harry nearly pounds the desk in frustration but puffs out a breath of air instead. "A question I suppose. You made it sound as if you are sorry and have made amends but nobody knows about it."

"That's more or less true."

"So maybe you should, I don't know . . . tell him?"

"It's a bit more complicated. it's not just that. He--we didn't exactly get on in school."

"So?" It's a bit rich coming from him, but this man doesn't know that. "Now you do?"

"I really don't think . . ."

"Do you want help with this or not?" He's losing focus here but he's also out of fucks to give. It's as if an invisible force is pushing Harry to push Mr. Snark. There is something here that needs to be confessed, hashed out, examined. He doesn't know what it is, but it hangs the air. He wants to help this man, and this is the only way he knows how.

This time the pause stretches out so long that if it weren't for the silhouette, Harry would be sure he ducked out again. Then out of nowhere, Mr. Snark tilts his head and speaks.

"Are you familiar the Death Eater trials?"

Harry inhales his tea. It catches, tickling and suffocating, definitely down the wrong tube. He represses it with what feels like every ounce of strength he owns. He gives his head an exaggerated shake, his eyes watering, coughing forcefully. "Not really," he lies. A lot of people were on "the wrong side of the war" without having taken the mark. But an actual Death Eater is something else. He's been avoiding thinking about the trials and his own testimonies there for more than a year.

The voice continues flatly. "My father was sentenced to death, and my mother and I were put on house arrest for six months. We were sentenced on July 12th of last year. He was there."

We were sentenced. We. That doesn't leave a lot of options for a mystery identity anymore. There was only one case of an entire family on trail--Father, Mother, Son. Just one case. The fireplace swims in front of his eyes. It can't be. It can't fucking be.

"That's when I . . ."

"Tried to kill yourself," Harry finishes, his voice hollow in his own ears. It's been Malfoy this whole time?

"Not quite. That was the day before." The distorted Malfoy voice rushes to add, "I wasn't afraid of being sentenced. It was the shame of it. Knowing they all hated me. I hated myself. I didn't want to be part of a spectacle, even if I deserved to be."

_I didn't hate you._ Harry thinks. _I didn't._ He'd pitied him at the very least. Malfoy's face at the trial had been almost unrecognisable. Drawn, haggard, nearly translucent. Anyone could see he was just a kid, just like the rest of them. Anyone who was really looking, anyway.

"But there you have it: Former Death Eater, Suicidal Good For Nothing. At your service." The head bows.

Harry opens and closes his mouth but no words emerge. He has to say something. Malfoy has no idea. He would explode if he did. Now that Harry knows, the voice sounds stranger. Because it doesn't sound like Malfoy, but at the same time it does. And the silhouette bears a close enough resemblance to the man he saw briefly at the Burrow. And this is Mr. Snark. Mr. Snark is Draco Malfoy. He tried to flirt with Draco Malfoy? Well, surely that urge will pass now that he knows what's what.

Surely . . .

"Are you still there?" Panic creeps into the voice, into Malfoy's voice. "I was told everything I say is completely confidential. If you breathe a word of this, whoever you are--"

Fuck. "Yes," Harry answers weakly. "Yes, it's completely confidential."

"So you see, it's quite a bit more complicated. I mean, fuck, it's obvious it matters to you and we're strangers."

"Strangers," Harry repeats, dazed. They've been a lot of things, but never that. Malfoy is seeing someone. A man, at that. And the man doesn't know who he is. What kind of idiot is this man that he doesn't know who he's dating?

"I've been using a glamour," Malfoy answers. "Though I won't stop you from calling a spade a spade," he sighs. Harry didn't realise he asked the last question out loud.

"That's a lot of trouble to go through for a date." He's still thinking out loud. This can't be good. He clears his throat. "I mean . . . I've had to use one myself from time to time. It's exhausting. I hate it."

"It's not just for dating. Idiot. It's for living in a post-Voldemort world when you've been branded for life. Not ideal, but necessary. Or I used to think so, until recently. I've become rather accustomed to it. I . . . sometimes I almost forget who I am. It's a relief to speak with people, work with them, help them without everything I've done hanging over my head. Cowardly, I grant you, but there it is."

"Maybe not," Harry says, more to himself. He knows what it's like to want to be anonymous. He knows about wanting to help people without Saviourhood getting in his way. It's why this job appealed to him. And his own dating woes are solid proof that being Harry Potter complicates things, in a way not so different from how being Draco Malfoy might. Adrock seemed perfectly happy to be with Harry until he knew who he was. If Harry hadn't said anything, how far might it have gone? "Maybe you're just allowing people to get to know you without them thinking they already do."

Malfoy pauses to consider it. "Stop it now. That almost made sense."

Harry laughs and his stomach turns. Uh-oh. It's still there. He knows it's Malfoy but the feeling--whatever the fuck it is-- is still there. He'll have to ask Neville to reassign him as soon as this conversation is over. At least, he thinks he will. He has to, right?

"Look . . . sir . . ." he stammers, formality unfamiliar in his mouth. "I'm not the best person to advise you on this. I have my own relationship . . . issues . . . but if it's any consolation, I think we've all, y'know . . . done things . . ."

It's no good. No good at all. He can't pretend this is nothing, that it's no one.

"I don't know why I told you this," Malfoy sighs, suddenly guarded again. "It's not as if it's a matter of life and death."

"Merlin, I hope not." That's the other thing. Fuck, it's the main thing. Malfoy tried to . . . the image of a lifeless Draco Malfoy being pulled from the river enters unbidden in his mind, making his head spin and his gut clench. No.  "Are you going to be okay? You aren't going to . . ."

"No, no," Malfoy sighs. "Not as impetuous as I once was." His voice sounds strangely wistful. "Too many consequences to consider now."

Harry wants to believe him, but he's not sure he does. He'll say anything to prevent that from happening again. He'll do anything. He won't dwell on why he feels so strongly about it. He just does. It's not just the saviour thing. It's the Malfoy thing. Malfoy can't die. He just can't. Especially not over a guilty conscience stemming from what his father and the rest of the batshit crazy dark wizards forced him to do.

"Anyway," he says offhand, "Adroc's got too many adoring fans now. He can't just--"

"Adrock?" Harry snaps, confused. "Your boss?" How would he fit into this?

Malfoy "My--fuck. You know Adroc? What makes you think he's my boss?"

"No, I--it's, I mean--" Shit. He's not supposed to know of course. He only knows because he saw Malfoy at Ginny's. He hasn't even let on that he knows it's Malfoy speaking to him. Though he didn't make it difficult to guess. Almost like he wanted to be found out, really. "I don't know," he casts about for an explanation. "I don't--it just--sounded that way from how you mentioned him."

"Forget I mentioned him." He sounds almost possessive. Could that be it?

"Is--is he the one you're dating?" Harry asks before he can stop himself. That would make sense of a few things. Or would it?

Malfoy laughs openly, almost maniacally. "You really don't know what you're doing, do you?"

No, he doesn't.

"Fuck me, this is insane."

And like that, he's gone.

_____

Neville is slouching over his desk and rifling through rolls of parchment when Harry knocks on the doorframe.

"Hey, Nev."

"Harry!" Neville grins. "How goes it?"

"Oh, well, you know . . .it goes." Harry hugs himself distractedly and notices that Neville is wearing at least three sweaters. It's still bloody freezing. "Actually, I need to talk to you about case 711."

"Okay," Neville frowns and motions for Harry to close the door. "Do you think he's in danger? He seemed quite stable the last time I talked with him."

Yes, well, that was before you gave him to me, wasn't it? Harry thinks. But instead he says, "I think he's alright, everything considered. But I don't think I should be the one to help him anymore."

"And why's that?" Neville asks.

Might as well be candid about it. "I think I've figured out who it is."

Harry waits for Neville to ask him who or how but Neville just raises his eyebrows and his mouth turns into a regretful half smile. "It's pretty obvious isn't it?"

"What? You know?"

"Pretty sure, yeah. Poor sod."

"Poor so----what!" This is too much. He's still waiting for the punchline. "But he was the worst to you!" He hisses. "We are talking about Ma--"

"No names please," Neville interrupts sternly. "But yes, I think we're on the same page. He was a complete bastard to me, yes. But I think we can agree he's sorry and to be honest I wouldn't trade places with him. Not at any point in our lives. Would you?"

Harry stops to consider. Funny he's never thought of it that way before. "No," he says, but it feels like giving something up. He forgave Malfoy a long time ago, but he's only realising it now. It's been easier to believe he hasn't, easier not to think about it at all.

"So now that you know--though please note that I will not confirm it, ever--is that why you don't want to help him? You don't think he deserves it?" Neville eyes him with something like concern, which is precious, really.

"That's not it," Harry says quickly. "That's not . . . it's just awkward, you know? And I think he'd probably kill me if he found out. So that would be inconvenient." Airtight argument, that.

"It's not outside the realm of possibility," Neville admits and blows a couple short breaths into his hands. "I mean, I get the awkwardness thing, and you two always did have a weird vibe . . ."

Oh, good grief, not that again. "We had a totally normal vibe!" Harry groans to the ceiling. "You know, for enemies," he adds, looking to Neville for validation. Neville shrugs noncommittally. Infuriatingly.

"Sure, yeah." Neville straightens up collects the papers in front of him. "Okay. I can take him off your hands if that's what you really want. It is, right?"

Harry hesitates, thinks better of it, then nods. "Yes. I think that would be best."

"Alright. Done." That easy.

Harry shuffles his feet and rubs his elbows before taking on the next thing, because he might as well get it all over with. "Also, I'd like to set you up with Ginny if that's okay?"

Neville's smile has never been wider. "Ginny?" He quirks an eyebrow.

"Yeah. Don't worry, it's completely fine with me. I was thinking er, Friday, if that works for you. And her. I have to check with her." Yep. Still terrible at this, even when it's not about him.

"This Friday won't work. I already have a date," Neville says casually.

"Really?" Harry shouldn't be surprised, but he is. "With who?"

"Ginny. She asked me out last week." Neville goes to open the door for Harry. "But thanks anyway."

Of fucking course.


	6. Six

He's not been as careful as he ought. The name just fell out without him thinking about it. How many people know that Draco Malfoy is connected to Adroc? Something doesn't add up. Ginny wouldn't have said anything, so it has to be Potter who opened his big mouth. Probably thinks it's a good joke. Thank Salazar he doesn't know just how good a joke it is.

Potter is clouding his brain; he's not thinking clearly. Fuck, Potter. The more he thinks about keeping his promise to Ginny the more uneasy he feels about it. It's only a matter of time before he slips up, especially when Boy Wonder is involved. Another date would spell disaster.

But he _wants_ another date. Despite everything. Just one more date as Adroc. He'll get it out of his system and be done with it, and pretty little Potter will emerge with his frail ego in tact, free to find the love of his life, be it man, woman or giant squid.

All he has to do now is swallow his pride. That's nothing new. Draco accios a quill and parchment from his desk and hunches over his coffee table. Now how to phrase it . . . "Sorry I was a cowardly dick. Please go out with me again." No. "Sorry I left. It's because I'm actually Draco Malfoy and you hate me, so I was doing you a favour." Maybe. That would cancel any chance of a second date happening but it would be quick and painless at least. There's a tapping at the window, but Draco ignores it. Probably another commission request. It can wait. "Dear Harry, could we just forget what happened before, have a good shag and let bygones be bygones?" Might as well explore all the options. The tapping persists, louder. He looks up in annoyance. An owl scrapes its beak along the window ledge.

"Alright, alright," he mutters, getting up and letting it in. It drops the letter on the floor with an unceremonial swoop and leaves without awaiting a reply. Fine.

Draco picks it up, rips it open and works to decipher the messy scrawl.

________

  
_Adrock,_

_I'm sure you didn't expect to hear from me. I didn't expect to write you. But I'd like to go out with you again. If this is about me being HP, I want you to know I hate it as much as you do. Probably more. Parts of it, anyway. But I thought there was something between us. Even if it was only half a date. I didn't even try the rest of the mystery menu. Isn't that tragic? I think you owe me that, at least._

_Sincerely and with all of my Gryffindor pride on the line,  
Harry Fucking Potter_

  
_____

 

Draco reads it twice. Three times. After the fourth time, he tells himself to stop grinning like an idiot. _This is a stupid plan,_ Draco, he tells himself. _Don't get excited. He doesn't know. He may like you right now but he doesn't know._ His eyes keep falling back to the "Something between us" line. Something between us something between us something between us. Fuck, if only. Harry Fucking Potter indeed. Well, at least his dirty work is done for him. Can't disappoint the Saviour. He responds immediately.

_____

_Harry,_

_You're right. I am very surprised to hear from you. Thank you for giving me the benefit of the doubt. You won't believe this, but I was just about to write you. Please allow me to apologise for my behaviour in person. I had my reasons, but it doesn't excuse my actions. Let's try the rest of the menu. Tomorrow? Same time and place?_

_Adroc_

_____

He wants to add, "I don't hate who you are. I owe you more than a date. I owe you my life and it kills me. There is something between us." He doesn't of course. He signals his owl and sends the letter without reading it over. His owl returns with the reply minutes later.

____

_Adroc,_

_Yes. And sorry I spelled your name wrong. It really is a weird one, isnt it? I mean that in the nicest way._

_Harry_

_____

Draco lets out a slow breath. How long before Potter catches on? Is it at all possible that this might still work if he did? Probably not. But still. Draco writes out another note and ties it to his owl again, who tilts its head as if to ask, "are you sure that's worth my time?" before fluttering off.

______

_Harry,_

_Your name, on the other hand, is frighteningly common, and I mean that in whatever way you choose to take it. As for mine, you're pronouncing it wrong too, but I'll allow it._

_Adroc_

____

He doesn't receive a reply back, which he has decided to take as a good sign.

____

The pub where he's arranged to meet Ginny for lunch is loud and bustling and completely muggle. He owled her just this morning in a panic, after trying on five different outfits, as Adroc and Draco, before throwing up his hands and begging her to let him cancel the whole thing. She, of course, adamantly refused, but offered to give him a bit of a pep talk that afternoon. What she could say to him that could possibly help his state of mind remains a mystery.

"What on God's green earth are chicken fingers?" Draco sniffs as he skims the menu.

"Oh, never mind, I just ordered chips to share anyway." Ginny yanks the lamanated card from him. "So let's get on with it."

"On with what? This was your idea. Though I sincerely doubt it will change anything." He sips his water and scowls.

"Why do you care?" Ginny says, glancing around the room. "Thought you hated him anyway and were just doing this as a favour?"

"I never said--" but he knows a trap when he sees one. "Whether or not I care does not change the fact that it will be humiliating."

"But you do care. You like him."

"Adroc likes him."

Ginny rolls her eyes. "Seriously? That's your idea of a logical argument?"

"Yes. It's entirely logical. Adroc likes him because Adroc has a chance with him. Because Ha---Potter likes Adroc. Adroc is a boring do-gooder with mediocre talent. He's not me."

"Like hell he isn't, Draco," Ginny laughs then turns serious. "Adroc is you. I mean, looks aside, I think Adroc is the kind of person you've always wanted to be. And you still can be, you know."

Draco shakes his head. "I don't think so."

"Harry would agree with me. It's not just the do-gooder part of Adroc that Harry likes. Harry's not boring. He dated me, didn't he?" She grins slyly.

"You're a Gryffindor," Draco drawls. "Hardly compares."

"Yes, and look how that worked out," she sighs. "Look--Harry likes a challenge. Hell, I think there's even a part of him that likes to be antagonized. For goodness sake, he gets off on bantering with anonymous callers at work so--"

Draco's blood runs cold. "What?"

Ginny goes on, unperturbed, "I mean, I trust you won't tell him I told you but he sort of had it on for a caller who was always rude to him. Remind you of anyone?"

"Where does Potter work?" Draco tries to ignore the panic rising in his chest.

"Well--" A startled look crosses her features. "Just an office by the hospital."

Oh, fuck no. "You said an anonymous caller."

"Did I?" She says weakly. "I meant arrogant. An arrogant caller. Someone from the ministry. Very handsome I'm sure. But unavailable."

"Weasley." He glares.

"Malfoy." She glares back.

"You are a horrid liar."

"You're no better," she counters. "Anyway, I don't see why it matters that he works at the Crisis Centre. He wants to help people. Something else you two have in common, by the way."

Draco swallows more water and looks Ginny steadily in the eye. "Ginevra. Please. Don't make me do this. I don't care what you tell him. Tell him Adroc is a closeted centaur for all I care. You don't know what you're doing."

She holds his gaze. "I know exactly what I'm doing, even if I'm missing a few . . . details. I know it sucks to be alone, especially after living through a war. I think you're a good match. I thought so when I didn't know it was you, but I think so even more now." She waves to someone behind him. For one sickening second, he thinks it might be Potter, but when he turns he sees it's none other than Neville Longbottom.

"That your date?" He sneers.

"Yeah, actually," she smiles and waves him over. He shoulders his way through the crowd and stops at their table.

"Hi, Draco," Neville offers him a handshake and a grin that is surprisingly genuine.

"Longbottom," he nods and tentatively takes the hand. "Neville," he corrects himself. Using first names is one of the small ways he has been slowly extricating himself from his old life, but it doesn't come easy.

"Not aiming to steal my girl, are you mate?" Neville chuckles.

Draco shakes his head and eases himself away from the table. "This one's all yours," he says darkly, and stalks out.


	7. Seven

Harry can't shake the déjà vu as he sits waiting in the dark. Adroc is fifteen minutes late and he's beginning to wonder why he came. He keeps telling himself to wait another few minutes. Another few minutes. Adroc said he would come. He has it in writing for fuck's sake. He apologised. He wants to apologise again in person. So where is he? And it's not just the waiting. It's the dark. He's alone and wondering and he hates it, more with each passing second. He's about to leave when someone taps him on the shoulder. "Mr. Potter?"

"Yes?"

It's a light, feminine voice. "There's a message for you at front of house. Would you come with me?"

Harry finds his feet and allows himself to be led through the black maze once more. When they reach the desk, the hostess hands him a folded note.

  
____

_Harry,_

_My apologies again. I've been delayed. If you think you can forgive me, please wait for me in the lounge upstairs._

_Adroc_  
_______

He's annoyed and relieved. It's been half an hour. Earlier notice would have been nice. But he's in it now and he's going to see this through.

He looks a little helplessly at the server. "My date has asked if I could wait for him upstairs?"

"Of course." She nods and hands him something that looks like a pair of ear muffs. His mind clicks back ten years . . . headphones?

"Er, those aren't mine," he says, confused.

"No, but you'll need them up there," she responds cheerily, and eases them around his neck. "Up you go!" She points to the staircase on his right.

"Right," he mumbles. The stairs are a shiny metallic and the walls leading up to the second floor are covered in portraits of muggle celebrities. When he reaches the top he sees it's a bar setting. The space is dimly lit but nowhere near dark. It is also completely silent save for the glass clinking and bar stools scraping the floor. He's hyper aware of his own breathing and his uncertain steps. Everyone here is wearing their own set of headphones, so he puts his on. He's surprised to hear music coming through softly. The song is likeable enough, a steady beat and pretty lyrics, but he's too distracted to really listen. The sign over the counter reads "Silent Bar Menu" and below it there are simple drawings of hand signs for different drink offerings.

Now he's in an awkward position. He has no idea what Adroc looks like, so he'll have to wait like a sitting duck for Adroc to come find him. He approaches the bar and catches the barkeep's eye, choosing what appears to be the easiest sign to make to order his drink. It's whiskey on the rocks for him tonight, on an empty stomach no less. He hops up onto a stool and glances at his watch while longing for the comfort of his own place, where he can mope in peace and sobriety. Then someone at the end of the bar catches his eye.

That can't be right. But Harry does a double take and there's no mistaking it. Malfoy, in headphones, all right angles and pale consternation, sits sipping a clear sparkling drink, folding the napkin in front of him over and over again until it's barely the size of a postage stamp. What's he doing here, in a muggle establishment, alone?

Harry doesn't know why exactly, but he very much wants to get up and move over to where Malfoy is sitting. At least here, in this bizarre setting, Malfoy wouldn't have his venomous wit at his disposal. And Harry can't exactly stick his own foot in his mouth either. Perhaps here and now is as good a time as any to start from scratch with the boy he knows accidentally and altogether too much about. If only he weren't supposed to be waiting here for someone else. Where the hell is Adroc? Another fifteen minutes pass and Harry can't kick the feeling that Malfoy is watching him. He always looks away at the last second when Harry tries to catch him doing it, but he's not fast enough. Finally, Harry's had enough. He slides off his stool and walks over.

He nudges Malfoy, who appears to be not entirely surprised. Harry jerks his head to stool directly beside Malfoy's as if to say, "Seat taken?"

Malfoy shrugs. Harry takes it. It will be awkward if Adroc shows up, he realises, since they know each other, but it can't be helped now. And part of him thinks Adroc would deserve it anyway for making him wait so ridiculously long. He should have left an hour ago.

Malfoy unfolds the napkin he's holding and draws a quill from his pocket.

_Waiting for someone?_ He scrawls and lays the quill down next to Harry's arm. Grey eyes meet his. Harry is startled to find he doesn't mind. There is a familiarity to this face, so close and unguarded. Right, the firecalls. That must be it. He pushes back the guilt of carrying Malfoy's secrets unbeknownst to him and takes the quill.

_Yes_ , is all Harry writes back. He's not interested in explaining. The music playing in his headphones turns to an acoustic version of a popular song he's heard on the wireless. He stops to listen. It's sad but hopeful at the same time.

But Draco (Draco? That's new . . . best not to dwell on it) is persistent. _Who?_ He writes.

Harry sighs. _Adroc_ , he writes back, bracing for a reaction. But when Draco merely raises his eyebrows, Harry finds he's disappointed. So he keeps writing, _You know him right?_

Draco nods. _Very well._ The "very" is underlined.

Harry frowns and glances over his shoulder at the door. Might as well admit it, he thinks before writing,  _don't think he's coming._

Draco eyes flick down to his hands but doesn't write anything more. Harry is at a loss. This night can't get any stranger. He reaches over Draco to pull another napkin from the stand beside him, since they're almost out of room. His arm brushes Draco's as he does so and they both jump a little. The déjà vu feeling is back. Stronger.

Harry picks up the quill. _I have to tell you something_ , he writes, meeting Draco's eyes again. Draco looks from the napkin to Harry but doesn't otherwise respond. Harry closes his eyes and rakes his fingers through his hair. What is he going to tell him exactly?

Draco tips his chin downward and tosses a hand out beside him. _Well_?

Harry shakes his head. Fuck writing on napkins like schoolboys. He edges closer to Draco and mouths, "We need to talk."

He sees a muscle in Draco's jaw tighten before he throws him an indiscernible glance and gets up. He walks towards the exit without checking to see if Harry is following him. So is he supposed to follow him? He's got nothing to lose.

Harry taps down the stairs after him, seeing him shuck the headphones onto the counter and following his lead, out the glass doors and onto the sidewalk. Draco stops and slouches against a planter outside, out of the way of foot traffic. Leaning back with his hands grasping the pebbled stone ledge, fringe falling forward and summer heat in his cheeks, he's vulnerable and stand-offish at once. Harry doesn't know what to make of it. He sidles in next to him, leaving a few inches between them.

Draco speaks first. "So, talk," he says, gazing ahead.

Harry gulps and scans the crowd milling around the restaurant.

Draco sighs. "You're still looking for him, aren't you?"

Is he? Not really. He is curious if Adroc will yet make an appearance, but he's only looking at the crowd to buy time before he tells Malfoy--Draco--the thing that means this--whatever it is--will be over before it began.

"I'm not sure," he says. He absently studies Draco's hands, veined and taut in the sunlight, and notices something he missed in the dimly lit bar. Paint around his fingernails. Just a tiny blue smattering on his thumb and forefinger.

Wait.

He tries to reason his way out of what it means. Draco delivers for Adroc. It makes sense the portraits might not be dry before he delivers them, right?

No, it doesn't.

He doesn't know what Adroc looks like. He doesn't _know_. But if he thinks about the vague picture in his head . . . . The fading sunlight hits Draco on the back of his neck, refracting off of the pale, glossy strands.

Fuck.

Draco isn't looking at him, but he's shifty, like he can feel Harry's eyes on him and knows exactly what Harry is thinking.

"I work at the Crisis Centre," Harry blurts.

"I know," Draco responds, picking the paint from his skin.

"You _know_?"

"Ginny told me."

Harry groans internally. He's not making this easy, is he? He takes a deep breath. "I'm not waiting for Adroc anymore, am I?" he says, turning his head and moving an inch closer, so Draco can barely escape meeting his gaze now.

Draco closes his eyes before facing him with a melancholy smile. "Harry Fucking Potter, I presume?"

Harry doesn't respond. He should be angry. He should be furious. He shoudn't be happy and relieved and want to laugh out loud. He shouldn't want to drag Draco to his--DRACO. His brain scrambles the letters, finally. Oh, fuck he is an idiot.

He shouldn't want to fist Draco's shirt and drag Draco's lips to his and snog him six ways from Sunday in the middle of the street in Muggle London.

But that's what he does. 

When they break apart, Draco is pink and stunned and deliciously undone. "Come to mine?" He asks in a low, urgent tone.

"Yes," Harry whispers.

_______

They've hardly breathed since they arrived--crashing into one another, kissing hard, shedding their shoes, then their shirts, pulling closer and skating their palms over shoulders, abdomens, hips. It's not enough, not nearly, for everything they've kept, everything they've hidden, everything they've wanted for who knows how long. But they stop, both of them, before taking the next step, even though it's obvious neither one wants to.

Harry, for one, is afraid of shattering whatever this is. He looks past Draco to their surroundings, taking them in for the first time. Draco's loft is nothing like Harry expected. It's bright, minimal, and damn if it isn't downright cheery. The pots of paint and brushes are organized on a desk by the window, and there are at least four unfinished portraits leaning against one wall, while a fifth has been folded into a wire rubbish bin beside the desk. He doesn't recognize any of the subjects, but his breath catches in his throat anyway. They were living and breathing once, and someone misses them. Draco is saving them somehow, in his way. It's gut-wrenching. There he sits, fidgeting, presumably waiting for Harry to be the first to speak, but Harry can't. He can only keep looking around, taking stock of Draco's new secret life.

"Are you finished judging me by my flat or would you like a few more minutes?" Draco asks, palming the back of his neck. Harry remains still beside him. The energy has shifted, but not in a bad way. He didn't know for certain just what Draco had planned--if anything--when he'd invited him, and he's even less certain now. What are they doing?

He clears his throat. Begin as you mean to go on. He slides his hand over Draco's. There are a thousand things he wants to say.

"Draco?" Harry speaks the name slowly and softly.

"Yeah?"

"I'm glad you're still here. You know . . ."

Draco swallows and nods. 

Harry should say something else, something a little more obvious. _Not just here. I'm glad you're still alive. I'm sorry if I ever made you think you didn't deserve to be. I like you. You drive me mad_. Anything, really. But being who he is, he just says the next thing that comes to mind.

"What's in the bin?" He asks, cocking his head toward the desk.

Draco stiffens only for a second before picking up his trademark smirk. "I don't know how you think household management works, Potter, but typically one puts rubbish in the rubbish bin. Or were you hoping to dig through it?"

He's hiding something, Harry is sure. He might not have known much about Draco's true personality all these years, but he knows when he's hiding something. He's itching to know just what.

"There's a piece of art in there," he says, "Why'd you throw it out?"

Draco sighs. "Your observation skills astound me. Fine. Have it your way. It's a failed piece of art. The first thing I ever tried to paint. I re-work it every couple of weeks with the same result."

"It ends up in the bin?"

"It ends up in the bin."

"Can I see it?"

"Must you?"

"No. But I'd really like to."

Draco doesn't say anything. Just gestures towards the bin with a resigned grimace.

Harry gets up and senses that Draco already regrets giving in. "Just--it's not even half done. And the markings are impossible to get right. I don't know why I bother."

"Shut it--" Harry says, scooping it up and unfolding it. There, in black and white, a snowy white owl sits atop a gilded cage, the cage door flung open. Her eyes are reproachful and proud. Harry's embarrassed at how much it affects him. "I hated caging her," he whispers.

"I know."

"You do?" Harry asks distractedly.

"Harry, everyone knows. It's the only part of the war you talk about openly."

Harry can feel his eyes burning. Fuck. "Why did you--"

"I was going to send it to you anonymously once I was finally happy with it. One of the counsellors, shortly after the incident--he said one way to feel worthwhile was to do worthwhile things. I wanted to repay you for everything you did, everyone you saved, but it never felt good enough. Eventually I moved on to other projects, more manageable work, created the Adroc persona and went for it. It helped. So did the centre. Before they started hiring just anyone, that is," he adds, twisting his mouth into a smile.

"Thank you," Harry manages, his voice hoarse. "Can I keep it?"

"I wish you wouldn't," he says ruefully, "but I suppose I'm glad you want to. It's all yours."

Harry walks slowly back to where Draco lounges and collapses next to him. "What about you?" He asks, trailing his fingers down Draco's side, holding his breath.

"Yes," is the only thing he can say before Harry covers his mouth with his and starts living the rest of his life.


End file.
